


in between the times (mad max remix)

by netweight



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Bloodplay, Community: spnkink_meme, Fight Sex, Implied Future Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Violence, Post-Apocalypse, Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Schmoop, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netweight/pseuds/netweight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-apocalyptic mating fic. Yep.</p>
<p>Written for the Spnkink_meme. Original prompt within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in between the times (mad max remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt:
> 
> "There is a legend among Jensen's warrior tribe that children born of two warriors become the strongest warriors and are never defeated in battle. It is the rare blessing that a warrior will be fertile and go in to heat, so when it does happen it is a great honor and time for celebration.
> 
> As one of the tribe's elite warriors, Jensen never imagined that the gods would gift him with the ability to have children, but then he goes in to heat and realizes that he has been truly blessed.
> 
> Since it is such a great honor, not just anyone can impregnate Jensen, there is ritual that must be followed. First, Jensen must be tracked in the woods surrounding the tribe's village and caught; then he must be fought in single armed combat, to first blood, by the warrior who caught him. Only the warrior strong enough to defeat Jensen in both rites is given the honor of laying with Jensen and fathering his children."

* * *

  


_Those who'd had gone before had the knowing and the doing of things beyond our reckoning… even beyond our dreaming._  
 _Time counts and keeps counting._  
 _And we knows now… finding the trick of what's been and lost ain't no easy ride._  
 _But that's our track. We got to travel it._

\- Mad Max 3: Beyond Thunderdome

 

He runs, the underbrush rustling beneath his feet, the crackle of sticks and leaves, dry in the end of summer. Under the canopy of green, the temperature is falling fast, the air carrying the sharp bite of cold of the oncoming winter, stinging his lungs and pebbling his skin. He stops beside an old oak, the trunk gnarled and wide, the bark rough under his fingers. The sun is dipping in the sky, the light mottled gold and dusty, the shadows lengthening. He listens, senses strangely attuned to the heart of the forest.

In the distance there’s the sound of drums, calling for the chase. His heartbeat echoes the rhythm, steady and sure, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement running through the sound, running through his body. He’s prey today, men coming for him, but he’s predator too, the thrill of the hunt mixing with the hunger inside of him, gnawing and growing, leaving him jittery, itching for a fight. For a fuck. For both.

Jensen remembers asking the shaman why, once, back when he was a child, and she’d smiled, amused.

“Aren’t you a curious one,” she said, a question that wasn’t and he’d felt he was being mocked in that way she had, not a dismissal but more like a dare.

“But why?” he’d insisted. Why the hunt, why the fight, why the ritual?

“Because they must prove themselves worthy. Run along now,” she’d ruffled his hair and he batted her hand away, sensing she wasn’t telling him the whole truth but knowing he wouldn’t get more out of her.

He isn’t a child anymore. He understands now.

Fight or fuck. The choice is his.

And he too is being tested.

He takes a steadying breath.

The snap of a twig has him flattened against the tree trunk, instinct kicking in before he even processes the sounds of careful footsteps. He waits the man out, his breathing measured but his heartbeat picking up speed in his chest, faster and louder until it seems to drown the outside noise and threaten to spill from inside of him to give him away.

He waits until the tension is unbearable, until he catches the first glimpse of a hand holding a blade and then his senses tell him to _move_ and his fingers close around an arm and wrench it forward and the man stumbles, feet catching on the roots, and it’s child’s play to disarm him, knock him down to the ground. He puts a booted foot to the man’s throat and throws the knife away. Grins down, victory coursing sweet through his blood, and sweeter even is the look of longing, of aching desire in the man’s face.

He turns and bolts, going deeper into the woods, running sure-footed, muscles uncoiling to eat up the ground, ducking branches and grazing bushes, swift and unhindered, like he could take flight. Here he can smell the earth, moist and rich and dark, a rotting and living thing. There’s an old legend that says men came from mud and he believes it now. He only slows down when the vegetation grows too thick, shrubs and ferns blocking his path, ivy hanging from the tree branches like curtains, until it suddenly gives way to empty space and he sees he’s gone farther than he thought.

He shivers. None of them come here alone, to this hollow, old place. They say the emptiness can eat you whole, drive a man mad. He walks on, slowly. The wind whistles in the wide deserted streets, between the hard, flat shapes of the buildings, with their sharp, unnatural corners. Other than that, the silence hangs, oppressive.

He’s heard the stories of the time that went before, told late and safe by the campfire, the flames driving away the cold and the dark. The people that lived here, they’re the ones who made him what he is now, him and the ones like him, magic passed down the generations.

“They were wise beyond our dreams,” says the shaman. Always.

He’s not sure he believes. For what they were and what happened to them there are no answers, only vague legends. He wanders down these strange roads, wanders and wonders. The abandoned city tells him they could not save themselves.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by movement in the corner of his eye before he’s tackled to the ground, knees and hands scraping on the floor that’s neither earth nor stone. The pain makes him hiss and he drives an elbow back, into someone’s ribs. The man grunts, lets go and he reaches back, rolls his attacker over and lands him hard on his back. The man is trying to gasp for air when Jensen straddles him and punches him, once, twice, putting his strength behind it, and there’s the sickening sound of bone crushing. It’s the splatter of blood that stops him when his hands are already reaching for the man’s chin and the back of his head, ready to twist.

Only then does he recognize him, the anger at being caught distracted lifting. Fuck, it’s Jack. Jack, friend, almost brother, looking at him with fear on his face. He raises his hands, palms out and trembling faintly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “sorry, I don’t-“

He cuts himself off, not knowing what to say and takes a moment before levering himself up and cutting off at a run, heart pounding.

Maybe this is what went wrong, he thinks, barely knowing where he’s going. Maybe this is what they did to each other and why no memory remains of what happened to the old ones. This itch for violence under his skin.

He stops by a creek, the water streaming over the rocks, clear and crisp. He kneels down and dips his hands in, lets the water pool in his palms and brings it to his face, cups it over his head, lets it trickle down, wetting his hair.

He turns his hands over. His knuckles are split.

This isn’t what he was taught. He is a good man. He lives by the rules passed down from times immemorial and repeated time and again, hands tempered since childhood. Do no harm.

But this too is rule. This is his duty.

He thinks of the tribe. Of the time still to come. Of safety in numbers and children, loved and cared for. Of children of his own. Of the idea of a father for his children.

He lifts his eyes to find Jared looking at him, five paces away on the other side of the creek, stock-still. Waiting.

His eyes are the changing color of the riverbed.

Desire spikes through him, mingling with the urge to fight still rushing in his veins. He realizes for the first time he’s hot to the point of fever.

“How will I know?” he asked too.

The shaman smiled kindly then. “You’ll know.”

He had not thought of Jared. He’s younger, only now an adult, coming into the full force of his body. Only now, seeing him here, does Jensen realize how much he’s grown, tall and lean, the muscle packing on his frame. He remembers Jared from when he was a scrawny kid, teaching him to skin a rabbit, to hold the knife, guiding his hand. The way the boy glowed with pride when he praised him, under the shy smile, eyes cast down and coming up to meet his like he’s doing now. It hits him like a punch. That yearning on his face, that is want.

This man has been waiting for him his whole life.

The world narrows to the both of them, the noise of the forest muffled and far away as they draw each other out. The moment holds indefinitely, the tension building until it shatters and they break off at a run, the drums guiding them back. Jared’s faster on open ground but here Jensen weaves between the trees, keeping the distance, spurred on by the sound of his increasingly harsh pants and branches crackling underfoot, the wood a blur of darkening shades as the night falls.

They tumble into the ritual clearing one after the other and he’s caught then, his arm grabbed and his body spun around so that they stand face to face. His hand goes for the ritual knife, tucked at his waist, but Jared knocks it out of his grasp and launches himself at Jensen. Jensen uses his momentum to flip him over but Jared rolls to his feet, the movement fluid. He closes in then, goes for close quarters, and Jensen blocks him, brings his arms up and lets his body take over, jab and parry, lunge and dodge and deflect, like a dance, the motions practiced so many times they’re second nature.

Do no harm, but ready to fight. Trained to survive, to protect, all of them.

Jared’s fast and strong, a good match. It’s hard to keep up, and Jensen is still leery of causing real damage, off balance from earlier and from the constant contact, his mind at war with his body, his hands wanting to hit, wanting to take. This close, Jensen can smell him, musk and male, and it goes to his head. His hand slips in Jared’s chest and Jared gets a hold of it, hooks a foot behind Jensen’s calf and brings him down, falls on top of him, pinning him with his heavier weight. His hands circle Jensen’s wrists and force his arms up, the length of his body stretched above him. Jensen snarls, animal instinct, and jerks forward to try and bite him but, instead of moving away, Jared just lets him and Jensen ends up with his mouth at his neck, teeth scrapping. Jared moans and his hips rock against Jensen, like he can’t help himself. He’s hard.

They both are.

Jared holds very still, his chest expanding and contracting in a shallow rhythm, pressed to Jensen’s. He breathes Jared in, tasting his skin, tongue coming out and licking a wet stripe under his jaw. The air whooshes out of Jared and Jensen takes the opportunity, bucks up to try and dislodge him, bring a foot up and plant it on his stomach and shove him away. But as soon as there’s space, Jared settles between Jensen’s legs, splays them open and grinds down, so that they end up thrusting against each other and Jensen shudders it’s so good. They both pause and then Jared shifts against him in steady moves, the sensation spreading through Jensen’s body and, all the while, Jared’s eyes are intent on him.

He encircles Jensen’s wrists in just one hand, brings the other down, fingers tracing down his shoulder and palming his ribs, his waist. He works it between them, curls it loosely around Jensen’s cock and squeezes, thumb rubbing back and forth, before moving below, parting the cloth, and cupping his sac. Jensen lets him, his whole body straining upward, taut as a bowstring.

They never break eye contact, just keep staring at each other. Night has fallen but there are points of light all around the clearing, delimiting the sacred circle. Jensen is aware of men and women watching from beyond, indistinct shapes amongst the trees, but all he has eyes for is Jared’s face, dimly lit by the fire, just enough to make out the straight line of his nose and the curve of his mouth, the glitter of his eyes bright enough to match the stars above.

Jared’s fingers reach back, touch and stroke, not enough to breach, just nudging the entrance to Jensen’s body. There’s that moment of strangeness at being touched so intimately, being watched so closely. When Jared presses forward, Jensen’s body yields. He’s slick inside and Jared’s knuckles sink in, awe painted on his face.

He fumbles out and lines himself up, one-handed. When he thrusts in, he finally lets go of Jensen’s wrists, the position too awkward to maintain or maybe just lost in the feeling, Jensen never knows. His hand reaches unerringly for the knife discarded on the ground, even as he’s fucked open, the air driven out of his lungs, and he brings it to Jared’s throat.

He stutters to a stop, mid thrust, eyes widening and nostrils flaring.

Jensen wants to squirm but he remains still, the blade steady, as his body adjusts to the intrusion. There’s no pain exactly, just the discomfort of something too big inside him, that burn edged with pleasure. He breathes in. Breathes out. Clenches experimentally.

Jared groans and rolls his hips forward, before bringing himself to a halt. Jensen looks up to see him fight for control before his expression turns resolute, his breath still coming fast. He looks down at Jensen and presses in again.

The knife stays where it is, the sharp edge pressed beneath his jaw.

He moves slowly, carefully. But inexorably, all the while watching Jensen.

Jensen cants his hips up, lets the heat build up between them. And he thinks, this is what he wants, this courage, this devotion. This abandonment that says this man would die for him. He lets the blade slip, cuts the skin.

Jared grimaces but his face betrays no fear.

Jensen brings the blade down to his mouth and licks it.

First blood.

Jared makes a hurt sound then and falls forward, follows the blood into Jensen’s mouth. His lips are soft, his mouth wide, generous. Jensen feels a stab of jealousy, that there were others before him that taught him to kiss like this. Wants to wrestle him to his bed, mark him up, leave finger-shaped bruises in all that golden skin. Bury himself in Jared's body and show him how good it can be.

He rolls them over and drives himself down, sets up the pace, caught in the flow, easy and smooth now, following the crescendo of the drums, his hands on Jared’s chest until Jared levers himself up and places one hand on the small of Jensen’s back, the other between his shoulder blades and they move together, mouths searching each other, sharing breath, swallowing grunts, Jensen’s name on Jared’s lips over and over like a prayer, “Jensen, Jensen, …” bodies coiling tighter and higher, pleasure cresting in a wave, exploding white behind his eyelids.

Around them the night fills with shouts, ululating cries.

The moon has come out and Jensen watches it reflected in the high towers of the ancient city, silhouetted against the night sky.

His children will reconquer them, he thinks. Be brave enough to climb up and see the world from up above.

He looks to Jared again, who’s still holding him close. Jensen pulls himself back a bit, rests his forearms on his shoulders, one hand curling in the nape of his neck. Jared bites his lip. He’s nervous, Jensen realizes. He smiles then, pushes a strand of sweaty hair back off Jared’s forehead, traces a fingertip over the slope of eyebrow and cheekbone.

“Jensen, I…” he begins to say but Jensen places fingers on his lips, silences him. Sees comprehension dawning in Jared’s eyes.

His children will have these river eyes.

But for now, he will have this. Now, in between the times.


End file.
